


Benedict?

by round_robin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Benedict Cumberbatch - Freeform, First Time, M/M, Modeling, Sherlock's Past, not series two compatible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds a magazine where one of the models looks strangely familiar...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Benedict?

**Author's Note:**

> Not betaed or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine.

At first, John was surprised by how posh the office was. Crisp, white walls were dotted with prints from some of London’s ritzier art galleries; not the normal, feel good pastels and Impressionism, but actual, honest to God contemporary art. The waiting room was filled with twenty or so sleek, black pipe-chairs ( _Bauhaus_ design, but not originals, not by a long shot) and for a while John was very impressed with this dentist.

But, after a few minutes, the novelty faded and it was still a dentist office. And John hated the dentist. Thankfully, this was for a case and not an actual appointment, because there was no way his army medical pension could take care of this kind of service.

Sherlock sat in the chair next to him, strangely silent. When the receptionist asked them to please wait, Dr. Moseby will be available in twenty minutes, John fully expected the man to throw a fit and insist to see the doctor right that second. Then, he fully expected the mad man to stomp back into the procedure rooms and interrupt the good doctor in the middle of a root canal, or something. Sherlock did none of the above. Instead, he nodded— _politely_ —and turned to take a seat in the waiting room. John followed and took the chair next to him, wary of what exactly he could be up to.

Five minutes passed and Sherlock didn’t cause a stir. Didn’t suddenly leap up from the chair and rush the secretary, or commit any acts of random destruction. After ten minutes, John allowed himself to relax. He reached forward and grabbed a magazine off the table. _Harper’s Bazare, 2004_. Well, at least something never changed about these kinds of places: the magazines were always as old as dirt, no matter how fancy they were.

He picked up the magazine and went to open it, but the model on the cover caught his eye. He looked like… “Sherlock?”

“Mm?” He mumbled, not looking at John.

“Have you seen this?” He asked.

“Seen what?”

For a second, John didn’t answer. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from the man standing on the cover, looking _exactly_ like Sherlock. Seven or eight years younger and (Christ) ginger, but still Sherlock.

When he finally managed to tear his gaze away from the front cover, he flipped through the magazine to find more pictures of the model; Sherlock, his brain supplied. Images of him wearing very expensive clothes while wrapped around some long-limbed model practically jumped off the page. Down in the corner, with the list of exactly what the pair was wearing and how much it cost, John saw: _Benedict, wearing_ …

“Benedict?” John whispered to himself.

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock asked.

His voice reminded John of his presence, and he leaned over, brandishing the magazine. “This model,” he said. “He looks like you. _Exactly_ like you.”

That ice blue gaze flicked down to the glossy pages in John’s hands. After considering the model for about a second, Sherlock waved his long fingers, as if waving the thought away. “Doesn’t matter,” he said.

Not: no, that isn’t me. Not: striking resemblance, but no. Nothing. No denials or anything, just a non-answer.

“Sherlock—” John was about to press when the younger man stood up from the chair. Dr. Moseby just walked into the room.

Ah, well, back to the case. The case mattered more than… whatever this was. Though, John wasn’t about to let it go. When Sherlock followed the dentist back into his office, John rolled up the magazine and shoved it in his coat pocket before following.

 

~

 

Three days later, Sherlock solved the case. The dentist—Dr. Moseby—was running a fairly grotesque business. He made dentures of cocaine coated in enamel, paid his patients to wear them onto planes and overseas. One of said patients (the late Katherine Smith, whose body was dragged from the Thames, all her teeth missing) got greedy and the not-so-good doctor didn’t want to pay up. So before she had a chance to go to the police and expose him, he killed her, stole the dentures he made for her and sold them himself.

Pedestrian, Sherlock said, but he still made the effort to talk to the dentist. He wanted to know how he convinced all those people to yank out enough healthy teeth to make the dentures necessary, and therefore plausible. The whole case just gave John the heebie-jeebies.

So for three days, whenever Sherlock didn’t need him or John found the whole thing too disturbing to be a part of (seriously? yanking teeth on purpose?) he would go up to his room and pull the magazine out of his desk drawer.

It wasn’t weird, because he wasn’t hiding it. And it wasn’t like he had it under his mattress, just a kid hiding dirty magazines from his mum. Really, John was just trying to figure this out. Sherlock’s looks were so individual—even Mycroft didn’t show any of the striking traits—and the possibility of someone else looking so similar (more like exactly the same) seemed slim. More than slim. Impossible. Sherlock was one of a kind.

But the name was different. Benedict Cumberbatch, the magazine said. It even had a little bio for him: born in London, 1980—making him twenty-four at the time, wow John was getting old—went to public school, then university, studying to be an actor.

To all eyes, it would appear to be a different man entirely. He was younger than Sherlock, and he was _ginger_. Even had a bit of stubble on his upper lip, which was also ginger. John hadn’t seen so much as a stray hair on Sherlock’s baby smooth face.

But those eyes. How many people could have those eyes? With the tiny flaw in the right one, and the little pock scar just under his bottom lip, at the right side. Sherlock had these little features as well, John knew that for sure. Though he was sure the amount of time he spent staring at his flatmate was rude—at best—and indecent—at worst—he still knew. After Moriarty and the pool… John never wanted to forget a single inch of Sherlock’s face.

And yes, it was weird. Having feelings for one’s flatmate was not ideal under the best circumstances, but having feelings for a man who answered flat out no scarcely a day after they first met? When the question wasn’t even asked? John received that message, loud and clear. He could look at Sherlock, but he couldn’t touch.

The fondness and friendship that grew between them was nice, John couldn’t (wouldn’t) want for anything more. If friendship was all Sherlock could give him, John would gladly take it.

But now… well, he just wished he never found that magazine. Even if it wasn’t Sherlock, some of the pictures—open collars, bare skin—were just enough to tease John. Even if it wasn’t, and it really was this Benedict Cumberbatch guy, well, John didn’t think he could get these images out of his head.

Two days after the case ended, John was sitting in the living room, watching something mindless on telly, when Sherlock stormed in with a portfolio case in his hand. He threw it down on the coffee table in front of John with a huffed little “Here,” before sweeping out again.

Okay, that was weird.

When the front door slammed and Sherlock was definitely gone, John carefully reached out and picked up the portfolio case. It was heavier than he thought it would be. The zipper on the side caught a little as John tried to tug it down, showing that it hadn’t been opened for a while.

Though when it did open, boy did it ever. The portfolio fell open in John’s lap and loose pictures started to scatter. He managed to catch most and stuffed them back in. Sherlock didn’t take very good care of this thing. Actually, why did he even have this thing? That was the question John should be asking himself. But then, that face. The one from the cover of the magazine. Large as life and clear as day, it was the first picture to look up at him.

This shot was higher quality than the magazine cover itself, so John could see that yes, he wasn’t just imagining the flaw that Benedict and Sherlock shared. It was there. Really there, looking up at him from those cool, intense eyes.

Those same long fingers splayed gently across the front of the coat, and those same perfect lips pouted at the camera. This was Sherlock… they all were.

John spent the next few hours looking through the portfolio. Sherlock had more photos than he ever imagined. Everything from modeling clothing, to shoes, to watches. In one image in particular—Sherlock sitting in a red leather wing backed chair in a pressed gray suit, legs dangling casually over the arm—John couldn’t see exactly what was being advertised because he was too distracted by the man.

Those eyes that always seemed so bored focused on the camera like it was a crime scene. John only saw Sherlock look like that around death and mayhem, so how did the photographer, all the photographers, really, get him to look at them like that? John longed for that look, and sometimes he got it when he said something particularly clever.

After he went through all the pictures, John was convinced that this was Sherlock (even though they all said _Benedict Cumberbatch_ ) but the hair… he couldn’t explain the hair. In almost every photo, Sherlock’s hair was a different color. Varying shades of ginger, blonde, brown and even the familiar black graced the top of that head, always perfectly quaffed or cropped, never the messy pile of curls it was now.

The sound of the front door opening was so soft, John almost didn’t hear it. It still made him jump a bit. Not thinking, he slammed the portfolio shut and returned it to the coffee table, standing up just as Sherlock walked into the flat. At least… he thought it was Sherlock.

That first man, with the soft ginger curls and the expensive blue coat, stood in front of John, giving him one of those intense looks. The look reserved for cameras and crime scenes and—apparently—John.

“Sherlock?” John just managed to whisper.

“It was seven years ago,” he said in that unmistakable baritone. John relaxed a little when he heard Sherlock’s voice; no matter how much he changed about himself, that voice would always be the same.

Smooth, cat-like steps propelled the tall man closer, but he stopped just short of the couch, still looking at John with that powerful gaze. “Mycroft was… offended when I wouldn’t take one of his cushy government positions and froze my bank accounts.” Usually, talking about Mycroft covered Sherlock’s smooth face in angry wrinkles and snarls. This time, he was perfectly calm. No exasperated sighs, or narrowed eyes. Just soft words whispered for John. Explaining. “Someone I knew from Uni worked for _Harper’s Bazar_ at the time, and I gave her a ring.”

Pause. A deep breath, those eyes falling closed. All John could do was stare. He’d never seen Sherlock so… open. “I asked if she could do anything and she came back with a modeling job. Put me in touch with the photographer and that was her end of it. I gave him false details, of course, made myself seem younger so he would say yes.

“They dyed my hair, I did the shoot and they paid me. I thought that would be it.” Another sigh. “But then, a week later, I got a call for _Benedict_. Another job. I needed the money, so I took it.

“The jobs kept coming in. Apparently, I was a photographer’s dream—a perfect mimic. Whatever they wanted me to do, whatever… emotion,” he said it almost as if it were a dirty word. “I only had to see it once before I could repeat it again and again. It never took more than three shots to get what they wanted from me.

“It went like that for about a year before Mycroft found out.” He said. “I don’t know why it took him so long, but it did. He ordered me to stop. I wouldn’t because I needed the money.” ‘For my drug habit,’ went unsaid. “Finally, Mummy put a stop to it and unfroze my accounts, put me in touch with Lestrade. And after that, well…” Sherlock trailed off, eyes dropping away from John’s. “You know the rest.”

John didn’t say anything. Really, what could he say? Sherlock—the man who preferred himself invulnerable—just told John about a very sensitive part of his past. At least it was to him. He always wondered how exactly Sherlock managed to get involved with Lestrade and Scotland Yard and everything, or what he did before, but he never expected to hear the story like this, with Sherlock dressed exactly like one of those pictures. A young ginger looking very much like van Gogh with that coat and the tortured look.

“You’re beautiful in these,” John’s voice said before he could control it. Sherlock’s head jerked up and he met John’s eyes again, wondering, questioning. “All your pictures, they’re beautiful.” A lump rose in his throat. Well, now or never, right? “You’re always beautiful.”

Those impossible, silver eyes widened just a bit. “Thank you,” he whispered back.

Say something, Watson, John’s brain yelled at him. “But why?” No, that wasn’t a complete sentence. In another movement from his body that wasn’t really planned, John stepped forward. Closer to Sherlock. “Why did you change your hair?” His hand itched to touch one of the sculpted, red curls that looked so soft but probably weren’t.

Sherlock’s eyes dropped away again, looking down at John’s hand this time. “Magazines loved dying my hair. The first picture you found, it was…” a shudder ran through his thin shoulders and his eyes dropped closed. “I thought you liked me like that.”

“Ah,” John understood. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but—I like _you_ , Sherlock.” God help him, this was so bad…. “I like you just as you are. Bloody love it, actually.” A light blush stole across John’s face. “And the only reason I haven’t… said anything, is because you told me the work came first. Honestly, I thought you weren’t interested.”

He wasn’t looking at Sherlock, else he would’ve seen the thin body and the rush of red hair as it lunged towards him. “Ohf!” John made an undignified sound as he hit the arm of the couch and leaned against it, six one of solid body pressing him into it.

Sherlock’s lips were at his neck, one long-fingered hand clutching his thigh. “Think I’m interested now?” He whispered against John’s skin while his teeth and tongue did sinful things to John’s neck. Oh, God, that has to be illegal….

His hands were everywhere, touching, squeezing John… everywhere. And he loved it. Sherlock, touching… it was almost too much. Rubbing his nose in the curls that still smelled a little like hair dye, John let out a breathy moan and let his hands wander all over Sherlock. Touching his arms, his neck, tucking his fingers into the curls and pressing their lips together.

Lips, those lips. They always looked so soft, and they were. They really were.

It was just about then that John’s brain caught up with what was happening. He was kissing Sherlock. Kissing. Sherlock. He loved it—he really did—but he needed to know why. Why did the other man throw his old modeling portfolio at him, then go out and dress up exactly like one of his pictures? Why did that seem like the way to finally tell John about his feelings? Though he hated to put a stop to this, John needed answers before this could go any further.

“Sherlock—” he panted against those soft lips. “Sherlock, stop. Stop for a minute.”

Sherlock’s body went rigid under John’s hands, eyes flying open, lips freezing. “Oh?” He said, then started pulling away. “I thought this was what you wanted?”

“What I wanted?” John repeated. “Sherlock, no. I just—”

But he was already stepping away. His hands vanished from John; he tried not to moan at the loss of contact. “I just thought—the magazine. You took it. You kept it.” Sherlock said. Again, eyes downcast, not looking at John. Sherlock was never afraid of making eerily direct eye contact, he loved it and how unnerving it was. “So I thought—”

“Oh!” John burst out, suddenly getting it. “I’m not saying no to _you_ ,” as if to prove his point, John reached forward and grabbed Sherlock’s hands again, pulling him back between his own spread legs, closing his knees to hold him there. “I want this,” he said. “I want it a little too much.” Sherlock’s lips twitched at that; they could both feel the sizable bulge straining against John’s zip. “I just want to know why _this_.” He brought his hand up and rubbed it through the ginger curls again. “Why did you think you needed to change for me to want you?”

Sherlock definitely wouldn’t look at him now. Strange. So John brought a hand up under his chin and tipped it up until their eyes locked. “Why did you think you needed to change for me?” He asked again.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked from John to the portfolio on the table, then back to John. “I’m not the… easiest man to get along with, John.” He said, quiet, almost afraid of his own words. “But back then, when I was Benedict, I was… easy.” He said. “Photographers loved me because I did what they asked. They said the word, I turned, pursed my lips, opened my eyes wider, my lips, my legs….” Sherlock trailed off, a full-body shudder running through him. It only made John want to hold him tighter.

“I did what they asked. And I hated it.” He said with a shake of his head. “I hated it, but Benedict loved it. He loved being accommodating and photogenic—he liked to please people. Now, I find that, well. I want to please you.”

Ah, John understood. For all the pride he had in himself and his abilities, Sherlock was keenly aware of just how difficult he is to deal with. Many of the crew down at the Yard praised John as a Saint for putting up with the arrogant sod. But for John, it wasn’t hard. For all of his problems, Sherlock was—and always would be—the best man John ever knew. And he didn’t need to change himself to make that true.

“You are difficult,” he said quietly into Sherlock’s hair. “You are stubborn, pigheaded, doubtlessly convinced of your own superiority,” with every whispered word, Sherlock’s shoulders tightened, preparing himself for rejection. “But,” John said, and felt one last tight click of the taught body. “I wouldn’t have you any other way. Not in a million years.”

That strange, ginger mop lifted and Sherlock’s beautiful face bestowed one of those rare smiles on John. Wide and gleeful as a kid at Christmas. And John couldn’t help but smile back.

With one quick kiss pressed to those beautiful, plush lips, John sighed. “Take me to bed.”

“Yes,” Sherlock mumbled against John’s lips.

Then, grabbing onto John’s hips, Sherlock hauled him off the arm of the couch and started pulling him through the flat, his mouth never leaving John’s. Leading him by the tongue, Sherlock steered them into his bedroom. When the back of his knees hit the bed, he finally broke the kiss and sat down, looking up at John under long eyelashes.

Their gaze didn’t break as Sherlock started undoing John’s belt. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything… I wasn’t exactly prepared for this. And I’ve never…” Sherlock trailed off, even as his long fingers threaded the belt from the loops and started pulling at John’s flies.

John, for his part, could do nothing but stand there, gripping Sherlock’s shoulders for dear life as he was slowly undressed. “Uh, that’s,” swallow the lump building in his throat. “That’s fine… I don’t….” He didn’t know what to say, so he just let his sentence peter out. Sherlock didn’t seem to care, anyways.

With John’s trousers successfully pooled at his ankles, Sherlock put those same long fingers to work on the buttons of his shirt. For once (thank God) he wasn’t wearing a jumper, thus subtracting one layer.

When John’s shirt was hanging open, Sherlock leaned back and started pulling at his own clothing. Again, all John could do was stare as—layer by expensive layer—more of Sherlock’s creamy skin was revealed to him. Then, finally, all of those pretty dressings were scattered on the floor and Sherlock sat naked on the bed. John couldn’t help it as his tongue darted out to moisten his lips, suddenly dry because of, well… _that_. For someone who’d never done anything like this before, Sherlock seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

Leaning back a bit more, Sherlock crawled up the bed until he was sprawled across it. His legs opened, knees falling apart until….

John could see everything. _Everything_. His eyes traveled up, up and up. Over legs that seemed to go forever, that pert ass and the little pink pucker right between those cheeks. And, fuck, Sherlock’s cock. Thicker than his slim body would suggest, skin flushed red with arousal. That alone would’ve sold John, but he continued up. His eyes skated over that flushed chest, two pink nipples, just a shade darker than all the pale skin, until finally, his eyes landed on Sherlock’s face.

Those eyes, those impossible eyes. The ones that sneered out at the world and were always so clever. After looking at those photographs, John thought Sherlock gave his all to those photographers. But now John saw it. Those photographers? They got nothing. Because the look he—John Watson—was getting right now… it was more. So much more than any of those pictures. Right now, Sherlock was giving him everything he had. Absolutely everything.

John couldn’t stand it anymore. They were too far away.

In one quick move, John yanked off his shoes and socks, then slid his feet out of his trousers and pants. One quick roll of his shoulders and his shirt joined the pile. Finally naked, John lunged forward onto the bed, his arms wrapping around that whip-thin body and crushing them together.

Cocks met like they were magnetized and they both groaned. Sherlock’s arms started flailing wildly as he tried to get purchase on John, a lovely moan dripping from those lips. Lips. John needed to kiss Sherlock. He’d never needed something so much in his life, and it felt like, if he didn’t, he might die.

So John leaned forward and kissed. Hips started to thrust of their own accord, but John’s lips were entirely under his control as he kissed Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock panted against his lips. “John….”

“Yes,” John mumbled back. “Tell me, Sherlock. Tell me what—uh, God.”

Despite the incoherent fog clouding both their minds (this was just so _good_ ) Sherlock understood John well enough. Reaching over, he grabbed John’s hand and pulled both down between them. John understood and wrapped his hand around both of their cocks, starting to stroke. Sherlock’s long fingers twined with his and they moved together. Until, until, until….

Everything exploded in a white hot ball, and the only thing John could think was _yes, finally, yes…_

 

~

 

Post orgasm lethargy wasn’t long in coming as both men laid there, enjoying the moment. Sherlock’s head was pillowed on John’s chest as the other man’s hands carded softly through his hair. Honestly, Sherlock had no idea why he’d tried to resist this. Though the idea of sex had always been terrible—something that caused distraction, took away from the work—the reality was incredible. But that was John. John was incredible. John was always just… amazing.

Just as Sherlock was about to drift off, a firmer tug on his hair brought him back. “Mm?” He mumbled.

“So how long is it supposed to stay like this?” John asked. Clearly, he was far more awake than he should be. When they got around to a regular sex interval, Sherlock would make sure the man slept; he would do his best to tire him out.

“The dye?” He asked, clarifying.

“Yeah,” John nodded, chin brushing the top of Sherlock’s head. “Don’t get me wrong, it looks very fetching. It’s just… different.” A soft kiss in his hair. “I like the black. It suits you.”

Sherlock smiled into his chest, nuzzling—though he would never admit it—a bit before answering. “Don’t worry. Its wash out hair dye. It will be back to normal in a few days.” He sighed against John’s skin. “I just have to avoid taking any cases until then. Lestrade would never let me hear the end of it.”

“Ha,” John snorted. “Nor Donavan.”

At that, Sherlock pulled a face. Sitting up, he looked down at John very seriously. He must’ve looked kind of silly—lips kiss-swollen, hair tosseled and (if he may say) looking fairly shagged-out—but he would be serious for this. Because this point was crucial.

“John,” he sighed. “I feel you need to know something about me.”

John nodded. “Alright.”

At this point, Sherlock leaned forward until their noses were almost touching. Close enough to kiss, but not. “I may be fairly new to this sex business, but mentioning Donavan in our bed will do _nothing_ to progress this.”

With a giggle, John nodded. “Right, understood.” Then, he leaned forward and touched their lips together. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s back and pulled him down again.

As they drifted off to sleep, John couldn’t help but smile. _Our bed_. He liked the sound of that.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> I know I'm mixing up time lines and such, but I wanted to do something where Benedict Cumberbatch's modeling stuff comes in to play. Sherlock definitely would've created a fake name to do this kind of work. :)


End file.
